


What happens in Connecticut...`

by DaddyFuckinLongLegs



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-15
Updated: 2019-10-15
Packaged: 2020-12-16 21:23:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21042989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaddyFuckinLongLegs/pseuds/DaddyFuckinLongLegs
Summary: The caravan back to DC has to lay up a while somewhere in Connecticut, and MacCready takes an unusual job from a wealthy stranger.Started as a kinktober fill, but boy this was a fun idea so I've gotta give it the space it deserves.





	What happens in Connecticut...`

The journey was longer than they could have expected. The safe route to DC took two weeks at the best pace, and they weren't making close to time. There'd been raiders. A gang of mutants that took out two of the caravan guards. A brahmin bitten by a wandering mutt, now lame and too slow to keep up, so the packs were split, the animal shot, what meat they could carry salted and wrapped. That night, the smell of blood attracted ferals, and MacCready ducked behind a building for shelter, picking off what he could from a distance while the others wrangled the remaining frightened brahmin and cleared the ghouls. Three days on, crossing the Connecticut river, one of the ration packs had been lost, and the caravan was starting to come apart at the seams.   
  
They had to detour around through a bigger market town in Wethersfield, falling another day behind, to restock and rest. One day turned to two, to three, to a week, as a radstorm hit like a tornado, tearing up the roots of a smaller settlement, and the community desperately needed help moving supplies to replace the ruined housing.  
  
MacCready settled in to the corner of the little hotel bar. Nothing like the Rex, but the beds were dry, and the beer was... well, warm, as ever. He crossed his knees, slouching in the chair, tapping the beer bottle thoughtfully against his chin. They'd earned a couple of nights free board, but those nights were past, and the truth of it was, the caravan was fast running out of caps. Mac shoved his hand in his pocket, felt the little pouch. Maybe 70, 80 caps in there. No two ways about it, they'd have to take on some extra work. Some building needed clearing out, with any luck, at least they'd get to pick the wreckage. Passage for a couple settlers, more likely, though that meant another detour. Fuck, this was so much harder than the journey here. How the hell were they gonna make it back with...   
  
He sighed and took a swig of his beer, closing his eyes, rubbing his temple. No point dwelling. The winter would have passed by then, the weather settled back to a reasonable number of furious radstorms and flooded rivers. Just push on. Get through tonight. Get through tomorrow. Get back on the road by the end of the week.  
  
A voice beside him startled him from his thoughts.  
  
"Is this seat taken?"  
  
MacCready glanced up, at the long, slender hand resting on the back of the chair, the smooth, black sleeve of a neatly pressed jacket. He looked at the stranger; the man was lean and a little taller than Mac, but only an inch or so. Thick rimmed glasses, and an almost clean white shirt, a thin, paisley scarf hanging about his neck. His skin looked dry and patchy, like it was... scarred maybe, or... what was that thing called, where you had extra pigmentation, vertili... something? No, that was the other way, when you didn't have... shit, whatever. Doesn't matter. Money. That's what his outfit said, loud and clear. Money.  
  
MacCready cleared his throat, shaking his head and sitting a little straighter in his chair.  
  
The stranger sat down primly, smoothing the front of his shirt.  
  
"New face, aren't you? You come in with that caravan from Boston?"  
  
Mac nodded, looking at the stranger's drink. Wine, it looked like, in a chipped tumbler. He held it elegantly, little finger extended reflexively when he lifted it to his mouth.  
  
MacCready nodded, swung his bottle to his mouth with his fingertips.  
  
The stranger nodded. “It was good of you to lend a hand here. It's not often you see such kindness from such... _rugged_ people.”  
  
MacCready snorted into his bottle.  
  
“Rugged? Nice. “Scruffy” is usually how people say that where I'm...” he paused, “...from.”  
  
The stranger shrugged, raising a palm to the air  
  
“Well, who am I to judge? The 'Cut is... vicious, and not everyone is born into the good fortune of a house with running water.”  
  
MacCready looked at the man, snorting and raising his eyebrows.  
  
“No shi- For real?”  
  
The stranger smiled.   
  
“Oh yes. Not... quite what it used to be, my grandfather had a number more plumbers in his employ than I do. But we have the robots, and they do a stellar job really.”

“Sounds impressive.” MacCready sighed. “Been a while since we had anything but a dip in the river. And that, uh, it wasn't exactly intentional.”   
  
The stranger's eyes drooped sympathetically.    
  
“Ah yes, I heard about that.” He sipped his drink, shaking his head. “That must have been truly a trying experience. And with only these... limited facilities to clean up in.”   
  
MacCready laughed.   
  
“Trust me, I've lived a lot longer in a lot worse. This is almost luxury.”   
  
“Oh?”   
  
The stranger arched an eyebrow. MacCready nodded, but said no more. The man sat back, folding a hand neatly in his lap.   
  
“The strong, silent type I see.”    
  
MacCready smiled lopsidedly, resting his beer on the edge of the table.   
  
“Not what I'm known for, exactly. But I'm... it's been a long... few weeks.”   
  
The stranger nodded, and laid his hand gently beside MacCready's, fingertips brushing against his knuckles.   
  
“Well, should the need arise, I could certainly be convinced to offer the use of the bathroom...”   
  
He looked at MacCready over the rim of his glasses. MacCready's eyes narrowed.   
  
“...and perhaps the spare roo– how many of your party are there, exactly?”   
  
MacCready answered slowly, bringing his beer to his mouth, moving his hand away from the other man's hand and pulling a crumpled cigarette from his pocket.   
  
“Five.”   
  
“Ah. A little short of space then; I only have the four rooms without occupants. Can't very well go sharing my quarters with any old ruffians travelling from out of state. Can't be too careful, you know what these  _ rugged _ types are like. Even if they are... somewhat dashing.”

The stranger adjusted his glasses and looked off over the room. Mac chewed the cigarette butt, rolling it gently between his teeth. He was getting the picture. And considering it. He sniffed, took a drag of the cigarette.

“Are you getting at something? You got an offer, you oughtta make it outright, save me the trouble of misunderstanding.”  
_  
God you sound like Nate. Man's rubbing off on you. ___  
  
The stranger tipped his chin high, unfolding a neat purse from his breast pocket, and laying it on the table, keeping his eyes fixed on something at the far side of the room.  
  
“I always find it a little vulgar, talking money at the table, but if you will be so insistent. Two hundred caps, or rations and water to that value, from the storehouse. Beds for your party. Four hundred, if you'll… Indulge me, a little."

MacCready reached for the purse, and the stranger groaned impatiently, his mouth tightening and downturned at the corners.  
  
“Please, don't count it here. I assure you it's all there.”  
“And what's...” he exhaled in a fast stream, heart racing in his chest. This was fucking crazy. “...what is it, exactly, that you're looking for?”  
  
“An hour or two of your... time. If you find the offer agreeable.”  
  
He blinked slowly.  
  
“And if not, well, you're welcome to walk away. I shan't hold it against you.”  
  
MacCready looked around the room, nervously. His stomach was a flurry of nerves, and his palms were starting to sweat.   
_  
Man that's a lot of money. Man that's a _lot _of money. How bad could it be?__  
_  
Mac cleared his throat, his voice dropping low, barely audible.  
  
“Uh, if you're… top or bottom?”  
  
His face coloured at the question, and the other man tensed visibly.  
  
“__Please. Be discreet. I've no desire to make the details public. Accompany me for a stroll; I assure you, you're welcome to leave if you decide against it.”  
  
MacCready finished his beer, took a deep breath, and hopped to his feet.   
  
“Alright. Alright, let's take a walk.”

They crossed the town to the south west, only a short walk, and into a park that the stranger called Mill Woods. He pulled a crisp tin of cigars from inside his jacket, and lit one with a gold lighter, offering one to MacCready. Mac took it, eagerly; he'd only ever smoked these twice, once when he was fourteen and Knick-Knack had gotten some from…god knows where, and once when he and Nate had found some inside a safe in the lounge of an old bar. 

The stranger took a delicate puff, the fat stogie looking strange in his thin mouth, and spoke, clearly but quietly. 

"Andrews. The name. Benedict Andrews. And you?" 

MacCready hesitated. 

"Uh, RJ. Most people call me Mac." 

"Well, R. J." Andrews extended his hand, "now that we've been properly introduced, I should make myself clearer where my request is concerned. I have… Two initial requests. And one that I would rather leave until we are more… Readily acquainted."

MacCready looked at him, cautious. 

"Okay, I'm listenin'. What's your job?" 

Andrews cleared his throat. 

"The first part should be easy enough for you. You are to accompany me to my home, under the guise of a mercenary hired to help with our musk-rat problem. We have a small brook running through our grounds, you see, and the rats are awfully territorial; several of their pairs have borne cubs recently, and they're eating what little healthful vegetation still grows in the grounds. Not to mention they are smelly, noisy beasts. One hundred caps for the elimination of six breeding pairs and their litters. The meat is passable, and the furs are valuable and warm, you may keep them and sell them as you wish.

"The second part of this job is where I begin to require your discretion. My wife can't abide the creatures, nor it seems, can she abide me. Suffice to say, the feeling is mutual. If you would be willing to… demonstrate your more…”   
  
He paused, smiling   
  
“... _ rugged _ masculinity about our house - spitting, uncouth laying of feet upon furniture, chewing with one's mouth open, etc. it would irritate her terribly. And, the real coup de gras of this set piece, is that you would accompany me to my bed, later in the evening."

MacCready sputtered, laughing and slapping his side. 

"Oh man, that is  _ killer.  _ You're really not a fan of the broad, huh?"

Andrews looked at him seriously. 

"if you had lived with this loathsome woman for as many years as I have, you would feel similarly, I assure you. These marks about my face, they are the beginning of - such an ugly word - "ghoulification". I do not intend to live out the rest of my many days wed to her. But for now, these small torments bring me, I must admit, a perverse sliver of joy. " 

He puffed the cigar. MacCready nodded, digging a hand in his pocket, still grinning. 

"Sure. I'll take your word for it. She’s not… you don’t share the bedroom then?"   
  
Andrews rolled his eyes, tight lipped.   
  
“A small mercy; no. Not for a number of years.”  
  
He swallowed.   
  
“An hour together, after dinner, in my boudoir, as it were. You’d be free to do as you please afterwards, of course. Preferably lounge in the parlour  _ sans accroutements _ , smoking a fine cigar and sharing a brandy.”   
  
He smiled mischievously at MacCready.   
  
“As long as she believes the deed is done.”   
  
MacCready laughed, and held out his hand, shaking vigorously when Andrews took it.   
  
“Got yourself a deal there.”   
  



End file.
